fanfiction: multi-fandom mini fics
Elementary: Honey and Opera, Joan & Sherlock (Brotp)
Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered to close the door to her room. At least he’d gotten better at knocking before entering, and at waking her gently rather than with a shout of, “WATSON!” in conjunction with a forceful shake.
Today he woke her with the smell of fresh pancakes, strawberries, and citrus-flavored tea. She sat up, brushed the hair from her face, and managed a “Good morning,” that didn’t sound too forced or peeved. In response, he grinned, bouncing forward from the doorway to set the laden tray on the edge of the bed beside her.
“So what’s the situation?” she asked, picking up a strawberry.
“I beg your pardon, Watson?”
“This early in the morning, with a peace offering-does Gregson have a new case for us?”
“Ah, no. Might I recommend the honey on your pancakes? From our own apiary, you know.”
“Sherlock, I appreciate this. It looks delicious-”
“I merely wanted to ensure that your birthday started on the right foot, Watson. I’m sure you already have plans for the evening; with your mother and siblings, I expect, given your frequent calls and texts as of late. No doubt arranging the finer details. So I wanted to get my gifts in early.” He pulled something from the pocket of his cardigan and held it out. “Happy birthday.”
It was a plain black flashdrive. “Thank you. Is this part of my training?”
“I compiled several operas and classical works that I believe you will enjoy. I always find that the structure of music is conducive to the deductive processes-these particular pieces are especially good for concentrating the mind.”
He’d shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and was rocking slightly on his heels, eyes wide and bright and mouth twisted into a hopeful smile. How such a tattooed, slovenly, imperious man could transform into an eager boy was beyond her, but she did know she found it oddly endearing. It was always nice to get a glimpse behind the logical superiority, to see Sherlock let his guard down away from judgmental eyes.
“About my plans tonight,” she said slowly, lifting the steaming cup of tea. “I was hoping you’d be willing to join us? You’ve already won my family over-it’s not as if you’d have to put much effort in to charm them further.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Watson, but I believe I will be kept quite busy tonight with my new monograph.”
“And what’s the subject of this one?”
“Psychology and the cohabitation of submissive and dominant personalities.”
“Hmm,” Joan said noncommittally, sipping her tea. “I imagine you wouldn’t have to do too much research for that topic.”
“No, I expect to be finished with the piece by the morning. Perhaps you would be kind enough to read it over once I’m finished? Provide me with useful feedback?”
“Sure, though psychology is hardly my strongest subject.”
“Ah, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You are an admirably quick study of the human psyche, formal background notwithstanding. Well, I will leave you to your breakfast in peace, Watson. I hope you enjoy the music-there are several tracks I included that would be well suited to your morning jogs.”
He ducked his head with another crooked grin and hurried out and down the stairs. A moment later she heard the telltale cracks of his long stick striking the dummy. Setting the flashdrive aside and drizzling honey over her pancakes, she couldn’t stop the smile that crept across her face.
He was right: the honey was delicious. And the music was perfect for running to.
The Walking Dead: Strays, Daryl Dixon
Daryl Dixon did not want to keep the dog.
Just another mouth to feed. Something to track in fleas and ticks, something that’d make a noise at just the wrong moment to attract dangerous attention. What purpose would it have?
But it was a survivor. Like them. Like him. Dirty, mangy, pockmarked with scabs, bloody paws. Sharp burrs in its matted hair. It crept and groveled and whined - but softly, almost inaudibly, as if it knew the threat of crying too loudly. Knew the noise would only bring a sharp kick, or a thrown rock, or a pair of clutching, decaying hands eager to draw its flesh towards tearing teeth. And while it inched closer in wary but increasing increments, he couldn’t help but meet its eyes.
Deep brown, clear and watchful. There was intelligence there. An animal intelligence, but one he recognized. He saw pain and hunger there. But a strange hope, too. It recognized them as something different from what it had known. Seemed to know they would not shoot it, would not rend it limb from limb. It smelled something on them, or saw it in their movements. It knew there was love here; in some strained and warped fashion, perhaps, but still love. Bonds of family and fellowship. And it crept closer, bedraggled tail swishing hopefully, because it needed that protection just as surely as it needed the fences and food they had.
And so Daryl Dixon opened the gate and let the dog crawl inside, bending slowly to brush a firm hand across its back as it slipped past.
Steph's Untitled Zombie Project: Ammo and War Chariots
Head shots were, of course, incredibly effective-- and there was nothing like that distinctive blood spatter to impress newcomers to their group-- but she had to admit that she'd developed a soft spot for shattering a zombie's femur and watching it keep trying ever-so-slowly to come at her.
“You shouldn’t waste ammo, Harry,” David said with an exasperated sigh.
“Just gettin’ my kicks where I can find them, baby brother,” she replied, sliding another shell into the chamber. “It’s not as if I can turn the television on when I’m bored now, yeah?”
He shook his head at her, balanced his elbow on the arm of his chair, and sighted down the barrel of his gun. The crawling zombie jerked back with the impact from the bullet and lay still. “We need to conserve what we’ve got left. And guns are noisy - they attract too much attention. We should stick to the baseball bats and machetes as much as we can.”
“Alright, alright. C’mon, let’s go check out the situation at that sporting goods place. Bet we can find some more shit to trick out your chair. How do spinning blades on the wheels sound? We can turn you into a regular ol’ Roman war chariot.”
The Lito: Molten, Psyche & Eros
His lips slide against the curve of her neck, softer than the rumpled linens they're tangled in, softer than lips have any right to be.
He’s hot and intoxicating, like warmed brandy gliding down her throat, leaving her dizzy and aching. She twists beneath him. Feels herself going molten, the fire flashing down to the bone. If she burns up entire she wouldn’t care; but no, her skin is not purely flesh, and neither is his. There is something marble and something steel still at their cores, as pure as thought and as sharp as his arrows. This sort of love could consume a mortal entire.
But for them, for gods not wholly divine any longer, it could last an eternity. Could - and will.